


Soaked

by castamyre



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Thunderstorms, a hint of casphardt if you squint, caspar is spooked, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castamyre/pseuds/castamyre
Summary: A rare summer storm hits Garreg Mach.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez & Petra Macneary
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Soaked

**Author's Note:**

> _Storm headed south, missed me by a couple miles_   
>  _I was almost in the mouth of trouble, I was excited_   
>  _I wanna be afraid of something again_
> 
> \- Kate Bollinger, "Untitled"

It doesn’t rain often in Garreg Mach.

Tucked away in the mountains, shielded from the warm ocean winds that nourish Adrestia, the center of the continent stays fairly dry year-round. Occasionally, a small patch of rain clouds drifts in from the east, or a spat of Faerghan snow bears down from the north, but it’s rare enough to catch its residents off-guard. The monastery relies mostly on groundwater reserves or small mountain streams, and has to import agriculture from downriver to stay afloat.

This is just one of the reasons Caspar is so alarmed when thunder booms in the distance during training.

He looks up to the sky, shaken from his focus. The open roof of the training grounds gives him a clear view of the dark clouds rolling in from the west. He watches them block out the afternoon sun.

“Oh.”

A light jab in the stomach reminds him where he is.

“It looks like I win again, Caspar!” Petra smirks.

“Heh, yeah, you sure do...”

He glances upward again, just in time for a single raindrop to strike him on the cheek.

“Hey, listen, I’m uh... I gotta go, sorry!” Caspar takes a step back, lowering his sword.

“It is only some rain!” Petra steps forward to follow him. “We can stay underneath the roof, if you do not want to get wet-”

“No, I just remembered I uh,” - he swallows - “...had class! With the professor! About... uh... ssssstrategy!”

Petra cocks her head to the side. He fears she saw through his blatant lie.

“Well... bye!” Caspar sprints off, barely remembering to throw his training sword in the general direction of the armory.

As the rain picks up, Petra loosens her stance. “But it is the weekend...”

\---

Caspar is panicking. Like, _panicking_ panicking. He fumbles through his pockets as he bursts through the door to the entrance hall. No charm. _Shit._ It’s probably back in his room, but that’s halfway across the monastery-

“Ah, Caspar!”

Oh, come _on._ Of all people.

“I knew I’d find you here. I was just looking for you.” Professor Byleth Eisner continues.

_Oh, come ON!_

“Oh, um, what did you need?”

“I had a proposition for you. I was thinking you could start training to become a war monk.”

Caspar can hear the rain pelting against the building now. “A- a war monk?”

“Yes! You would have to learn a bit of white magic, but you’re already plenty skilled at brawling, and I think it would be useful for you to learn some healing spells.”

Caspar shuffles around the professor, trying his best to leave politely. “Um, that... sounds neat and all, Professor, but I- I’m really not very good with magic. Lin’s - uh, Linhardt’s tried to teach me, and uh, I just couldn’t get it to work. I don’t think it’s my thing.”

Byleth’s brow furrows. “I think you’d be surprised. Everyone can learn a little bit of magic. Maybe you just need a better teacher.”

He stops. “Linnie’s smart.”

“Oh, of course he is. But you might just need someone with more experience. Like Professor Manuela.”

He folds his arms defiantly. “If anyone can teach me magic, it’s Linhardt.”

Byleth chuckles. They get the idea. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I think it’d be good for you.”

He offers a simple “yeah, thanks, Professor.” It comes off a bit more sarcastic than he intended.

“Have a good day, Caspar.” Byleth smiles and waves nonchalantly.

“You too.” He turns to leave again, striding confidently towards the grand wooden exit doors.

So confidently, in fact, that he’s entirely forgotten about the weather. He jumps as he pushes the door open, and rain suddenly pelts him in the face. Before he even realizes, he’s slammed it shut again. A sharp bang echoes through the hall.

_Shit._

_Fuck._

_Uhhhh._

_Shit._

A drop of something falls from his forehead. He’s burning up all of a sudden, and he hears a second voice call out for him from behind.

“Caspar!”

It’s Petra again. Byleth is waving at her.

“Oh, hello, Professor! Caspar, wait!” She sprints over to him before he can turn back to the door.

“Are you already finished your meeting with the professor?”

“Oh, um, yyyyeah. Yeah, I did, yeah. I’m done.” Caspar tries to stand up straight again, and notices for the first time that Petra is taller than him.

“Oh, good! Are you done training for today? If you want, I will be very excited to duel in the rain!”

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I think I-”

His sentence is cut short by a bright flash illuminating the room from the outside. Lightning.

_Fuck._

Caspar has been like this for as long as he can remember. Every storm memory he has is one of hiding.

When he was six, his first meeting with Linhardt was cut short by a cloudburst. Lin didn’t understand why. “It’s only water,” he told him.

When he was eight, he and Lin hid in the kitchen as a windstorm battered the Bergliez estate. “You’re not gonna get struck by lightning,” Lin assured him. “It’s impossible.”

When he was eleven, Linhardt gave him that little lightning charm while they hid in Caspar’s bedroom. “This’ll keep you safe.”

“Promise?” he’d asked, a tear in his eye.

“Promise. I tested it myself. I wore it in a thunderstorm and I didn’t get struck _once_.”

Huh. He sure has a lot of memories of Linhardt.

But here he is now, seventeen years old, with no charm and no Lin. And unfortunately for him, there’s only one thing predictable about the rare summer storms of Garreg Mach -

_Crack._

The thunder.

“Petra, I uh... really gotta go.” He tries to flash her a smile, but it’s weak. She sees through it. “I’ll... seeyouaroundbye!”

He spins around and breaks through the doors in a sprint. He finds himself in the rain without a plan. His room is too far away. There has to be something closer. The sauna’s to his right, but that’s probably closed, or worse, occupied. To his left - the classrooms. The Black Eagles classroom.

He takes off again. Rain is in his eyes. In his hair. In his clothes. Petra calls out again. He barely hears her. He doesn’t turn around. He stomps into a puddle. He nearly trips. His feet are wet. He’s cold now. He keeps running. He rounds the corner. He’s under cover. He doesn’t stop.

Caspar crashes through the unlocked classroom door at breakneck speed, not even bothering to check the room first. He stumbles around and slams it closed behind him.

He falls to his knees, catches his breath, wrists pressed hard against the door. He can’t tell if he’s crying, or just soaking wet.

He sniffles. Definitely crying.

God dammit.

\---

“Professor!”

Byleth, midway through the process of taking off their coat to train, whips around to Petra staring up at them. They quickly throw it back over their shoulders.

“Hello, Petra.”

“Were you meeting with Caspar? He told me he has class with you today.”

“Well, yes,” Byleth hesitates, “but it wasn’t a class. And it wasn’t planned, either. I only wanted to ask him about becoming a war monk.”

“Hm. Strange.”

“Why do you ask?”

Petra lowers her voice. “He looked... afraid. I think he is afraid of the storm. He ran away from me twice, and he did not tell me why.”

Byleth thinks for a moment. “Yes, he seemed a bit scared. Actually, there are a few students I know are scared of thunderstorms.”

“There are? That is very strange!”

“Storms are a lot less common here than I’m guessing they are in Brigid. A lot of kids get really frightened by them.”

Petra tries to stifle a laugh. “That is... very interesting! I did not have an idea! I cannot imagine someone who is his age, from Brigid, afraid of storms...”

“Well, here in Fódlan it’s more likely than you’d think. In fact - did you see where he ran to? He may be better off if he has a friend with him.”

“I think he was running at the academy classrooms.”

Byleth turns back around to hang their coat up. “Maybe go try to talk to him. I think he’d appreciate the company.”

“Okay! Thank you, Professor.”

“Anytime, Petra.”

She turns to leave, as does Byleth, but she has one more thought.

“Professor, are you really going to train in this weather?”

“Of course!” they reply from the doorway to the grounds. “It’s only some rain.”

A flash of lightning dances across the dark sky. “I’ve faced worse.”

\---

Another crack of thunder rattles the windows of the Black Eagles classroom. Caspar is shivering, curled up in a ball against the door. His clothes are soaked through from the rain, and his eyes are wet with tears.

This is so stupid. _He’s_ so stupid. He shouldn’t be afraid of this. He’s Caspar von Bergliez, and he shouldn’t be afraid of anything. He can take on villains twice his size and win. He’s not six years old anymore. He should _not_ be scared.

But when the wind picks up for just a moment, and rain batters the windows just a little bit harder, he’s still terrified. No matter how much he scolds himself.

He just wishes he’d been alone when it happened.

_Fuck._

And of _course_ , as if on cue, the voice of one Petra Macneary echoes across the courtyard, muffled by the storm.

“Caspar!” she cries out.

It’s in vain. He’d rather die than let her find him now. He scoots into the darkened corner of the classroom, hides himself away even further.

But Petra continues her search. She scans the court for any signs of life, then turns her attention to the covered hallway and the classrooms.

She peers through the far window. “Caspar?”

He should’ve just gone back to his room. Made the journey. At least there’d be no one there to find him.

Petra knocks on the door before gently pushing it open and sticking her head in. “...Caspar?”

He buries his head between his knees.

“Caspar!”

Petra’s braid, soaking wet, has started to come loose. Purple hair falls around her face in loose strands. She pushes some out of her eyes.

“Go away.”

“Are you okay, Caspar?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just- just go away. I’m fine.”

“I do not think you are fine. You do not look like fine. And you were not acting like fine. So I will not go away.”

“It’s just...”

Thunder cracks. Caspar winces.

“No. You’re gonna make fun of me.”

“I will not make fun of you, Caspar! You can trust me.”

He grumbles. “Fine.” 

Deep breath. “I’m... scared of thunderstorms.”

“Ah! I was thinking maybe you are.”

“Yeah, it’s... really childish. But I don’t like them. At all.”

“I understand.”

The pair falls silent for a minute. Rain batters the outside of the building. Caspar curls up a bit tighter.

“If it will help, I can stay here until it ends.”

“N-no, it’s fine, I can just-” Caspar’s thoughts are cut short by another flash of lightning. A moment later, its thunder rattles through the halls. He curls up tighter still.

Petra is unmoved. “That way, you will not be alone.”

“Okay fine. Maybe that’d be nice.”

Petra drops to the floor beside him and leans back against the wall. She’s dealt with scared children before, but never anyone she was close with.

“I’m sorry,” she speaks up, “but I do not know how to... ah... heal your fear.”

“Make the storm stop,” Caspar suggests. He’s only half joking.

Petra giggles. “I do not have the power to do that!”

Lightning strikes again. Caspar shudders, and Petra slides in a little closer to him.

“It is okay, Caspar. We are safe here.”

He doesn’t seem very comforted by this. He stays quiet. Petra decides to try something else.

“In Brigid, we often prayed for thunderstorms.”

Caspar looks up. His eyes are puffy and wet.

He swallows a hard lump in his throat. “R-really? Why?”

Petra flashes him a smile. “They came very often. Almost every day, in the summer.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yes, it is.” She pauses. “When they came, they were bringing rain with them. The rain fed the crops, and the plants and the trees, and the wells and the rivers.”

Lightning flashes. “The rain brought life.”

Caspar is still confused. “But don’t they also destroy stuff?”

“Yes.”

Thunder booms.

“They did.”

“I don’t get it. Why would you pray for that?”

“Destroying is not always bad.”

That one hits Caspar like a truck.

“If something is destroyed, that just means it is time to change it. And sometimes you have to destroy something to make it better.”

“...Huh.”

Rain continues to fall. In a few months, war will break out on the continent of Fódlan, and Caspar will come to understand what she means.

“You’re smart, Petra.”

“Thank you.”

They fall silent once more, for a time. Caspar loosens up a little.

“It never rains here,” Petra says. “I miss the rain.”

She pauses once more.

“When it is raining, I like to go outside, and... dance. Like I did at home.”

Caspar looks up at her. She’s smiling, weakly. Thinking of better times.

“I mean, you... don’t have to stay here,” he offers. “With me. I’m fine. Totally.”

“No.” She looks back at him. She’s smiling stronger all of a sudden. “I will rather stay with you.”

“Are- are you sure? I’m serious, you don’t have to-”

“Caspar. We are friends, no?”

The question catches him offhand. “Oh! I mean, yeah, but I-”

“Then I will stay here happily. If it makes you feel better.” She’s beaming now.

One more streak of lightning illuminates the room. Its thunder follows eagerly. This time, Caspar barely notices.

“Hey Petra?”

“Yes?”

“What’s Brigid like?”

“Oh, gosh,” she answers. “Um... why are you asking?”

“I just wanna know. You keep talkin’ about it.”

“Well...”

She leans back against the wall, taking a moment to think.

“It is a beautiful place. You will not _believe_ the kinds of flowers we have there...”

\---

A while later, the thunderstorm is gone as suddenly as it came. Sunlight beams in through the windows once again. It’s quiet, save for the subtle _whoosh_ of a light breeze.

Caspar peeks over the windowsill.

“Did it stop raining?” his companion asks.

“Yeah, it’s clear now.”

With some effort, Petra pries herself out of the corner and gently pulls open the door. The room’s stale air is quickly flooded with the calming scent of petrichor. She takes a second to breathe it all in before going back to help her friend to his feet.

As Caspar steps out of the classroom and catches his first breath of fresh air, the late evening sun hits him square in the face. It’s warm, and almost soothing. And it’s dry.

The sky is bright blue, and nearly cloudless. The puddles scattered across the stone walkways are already beginning to dry. The day isn’t over yet.

“Hey, um, Petra,” he speaks up.

“Hm?”

“Thanks for that.”

“You are very welcome, Caspar.” She’s beaming again. He likes her smile.

“And... thanks for being my friend.” That sounded dumb. Whatever. “Sorry I kinda freaked out.”

“You do not need to, ah, say sorry. I am glad I was helping you feel better.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks... again.”

Petra turns around and puts her hand on his shoulder. He jumps slightly. Her braid is still a bit loose, but her hair is dry now. She’s still taller than him. She’s still smiling.

“If you are ever scared again, you can always try finding me. If it is raining, I will be dancing somewhere.”

The setting sun crowns her head, illuminating her hair with a faint orange shimmer. “Heh, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

“It is no problem! Maybe someday, you will stop being scared of the storms.”

She drops her arms behind her. “And maybe then we can both dance in the rain.”

“Oh, I’m not much of a dancer, really. But, uh... maybe someday.”

A gust of wind knocks a few drops of water down from the rooftop. In the distance, the evening hustle and bustle of the monastery is starting to pick up again. It’s the weekend, and the day is still young.

“Hey, Petra?”

“Yes?”

“Do you wanna get dinner?”

“I will love to!”

When the distant storm gives out a final, parting thunderclap, Caspar doesn’t even hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic arose from a combination of two things: a desire to write a more realistic bilingual Petra, and a thunderstorm that hit my house while I was thinking about how to do that. It didn't do as much exploring of the former as I was initially kinda wanting it to, so that idea is still on the backburner.
> 
> follow me on twitter @ castamyre so you can watch me think incoherent thoughts at odd hours of the day


End file.
